In around the year 2000, a motion came forward from the Africa Region of the World Student Christian Federation (WSCF) to ‘eject all the homosexuals’ from the World’s Student Christian Movements.

Wisely, instead of debating that motion, the international movement, knowing that many of the northern / western movements were LGBTQ2SIA+ affirming, asked each global region to hold a consultation – inviting folks from the other regions to be present as observers and, if asked, conversation partners.

I was a member of the Student Christian Movement of Canada – a WSCF affiliate – and was selected to be one of 2 North American representatives – there were a couple Europeans as well – to be invited to be part of what became the first Pan-African consultation on same-gender sexuality. I had come out as bisexual just 3 years before, and wasn’t sure about how this would feel.

Early on, the agenda was (again, I think wisely) expanded to include sex education and HIV/AIDS – which had killed approximately 1.6 million people in Africa the year before.

I left Canada on September 14 or 15, 2001 – yes, that September 2001 – on some of the first planes to take off after the infamous 9/11 attacks. It was a weird time, and security was beyond tight both in North America as well in the 5 or so checkpoints I went through after deplaning at the Togo airport. I learned, after landing, that the Togolese parliament had been shut down in an act of repression. The Christians there spoke in hushed voices of how they lived in spiritual and political fear of the president.

I didn’t know what to expect, and shortly after being picked up at the airport, I was driven to a hospital, where I would witness acres of people lying on mats on the grass outside, dying of preventable AIDS, due to the greed of pharmaceutical companies and governments.

Something broke in me seeing the human carnage. Jubilee 2000 became less abstract than it had been to that point.

The actual conference, and particularly the conversation around sexuality, was far more nuanced and diverse than I had expected it to be, given stereotypes perpetuated by folks about African Christians at that time.

There was a fairly broad spectrum in the African Church youth ranging from affirming to decidedly not. A lot of these depended on country, culture, place of education, etc.

I remember how the South African delegation – mostly Pentecostals – spoke to me of how they weren’t affirming, but how it was hard to argue with Archbishop Tutu, who had come out as such in the 1998 World Council of Churches gathering.

I also remember a Ghanian pastor, a former Anglican at a Charismatic megachurch, telling me of the prevalence of men wanting anal sex with other men in his congregation.

There was frank, honest and very smart discussion about colonialism – how European missionaries had banned man-boy traditional anal rites of passage in some African cultures, and how ‘homosexuality’ was seen as an unhelpful return by folks from some of those practices.

I can also remember one hilarious interaction where the English language translator stopped translating and said “I will not repeat what this homophobic buffoon is saying”.

There were tensions in the gathering, as one might expect. Some were around sexuality and inclusion, but even more so around the sentiment that both sex education and HIV/AIDS were more pressing topics then same-gender sexuality – which some saw as important, but less so than the other issues at hand.

I’m not sure much was settled at the end of the day, but I was moved by the civility, the love and the care that the students from vastly different countries and (mostly protestant) spiritual traditions exhibited.

And the worship. The worship!

The singing and prayer was powerful and fervent in that event. My own faith, which was still recovering and reconstructing from my own deconstruction from my Pentecostal roots, was renewed.

The conference gathering ended with one of the organisers thrusting a guitar in my hand imploring me to play the old hymn The Churches One Foundation (not an intuitive guitar song without the chords, I gotta say – but I made it through).

That was one of the greatest and most humbling moments of my life to hear those incredible harmonies and passionate voices singing that ode to Christian unity with my hardly cohesive guitar chords played underneath

My initial host in Togo, was a young woman, Lilas, who quite suddently disappeared and was replaced by her brother Joyd. I learned later that Lilas had malaria and had become very sick (she would die a short time after). Before she left me, I asked her what she was studying. She replied that it was psychology – but that a westerner like me wouldn’t understand what that means – because in the African worldview it integrated both mind and science – and the world of the spirit/spirits.

Joyd was a church musician, and he graciously took me along to his Sunday circuit (I think it was at least 4 churches that Sunday – and we travelled on his moto-scooter from place to place) where I got to witness both urban and rural Presbyterian worship.

The spirit, or shall I say, the Holy Spirit in those churches was a huge part of my reconstruction of faith. Witnessing the praise, adoration and joy from Christians (I also attended Catholic mass) in the midst of such poverty changed me. Watching the congregants dance and drum their offerings forward (called up by the day of the week they were born) was powerful. Hearing the reggae-infused praise music pumping out of the many markets was incredible. I still have a cassette I picked up there which has my favourite version of How Great Thou Art I’ve ever heard.

I stayed about a month after the conference – I knew it would be a long time, if ever, that I’d be back to the African continent. My anti-malarial medication was lost and my bank card didn’t work so I had about $40 to my name. That was more than enough to survive on street food and Guinness and water bottles, where, at that time, they told me the average pastor made about $400 a year. I didn’t get too sick.

There were other adventures – a cab filled with about 16 people (don’t ask me how) taking us to Joyd’s parent’s village. We were stopped in the mountains by paramilitary guerrillas with machine guns – they hid me under all the other people to get us through. Wandering past the fetish markets, watching a film in an old German-era theatre, the many incredible markets and layers of German then French colonial history, the 10 cent bottles of Guinness, which was much safer than the unbottled drinking water. And, of course, an invitation from a theology professor to neighbouring Ghana (“You don’t need a visa – stick close to me”)- and getting separated then interrogated and nearly arrested. “Do you want to spend your night in a Ghanian prison?” the intimidating khaki-clad colonel, flanked by 2 men with machine guns asked me).

At the end of the day, my life was transformed by that journey.

My faith changed forever.

Witnessing the poverty and preventable death contrasted with the incredible faith and worship of Christians in Togo (and the Pan-African folks too). It shook me.

It was only a month away, but how would I re-integrate into life in North America? My heart was broken and inspired by what I’d witnessed.

I’d recently turned down an offer to study at Union Seminary, sensing a call to embodied Christian community instead.

I would land, spend a few weeks living in my car – and on November 1, 2001, move into Zacchaeus House – a house of hospitality in the Toronto Catholic Worker. It was the best way to land.